


Cross My Heart

by randomsquare



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Captain Swan Supernatural Summer, F/M, Vampire/Sheriff AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-06-29 08:31:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15725745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomsquare/pseuds/randomsquare
Summary: All Sheriff Emma Swan wanted was a bit of the quiet life. Why else would she take a job in Storybrooke, Maine, where deer outnumber people? But when a local woman turns up murdered, Emma quickly realizes she may be out of her depth. Enter Killian Jones, 17th century buccaneer turned vampire, who might just have the kind of unique perspective on the crime she is looking for. It’s a shaky alliance, but when Emma’s past comes back to bite her, she might just discover how handy having a vampire around can be.A Captain Swan Vampire/Sheriff AU Murder Mystery written for the Captain Swan Supernatural Summer.Rated M for Mature Readers. Trigger warnings for blood, Gore, violence, sexual references, blood sharing, mental manipulation and major character deaths.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the illustrious Ro for holding my hand through all of this, and making such a kickass banner for it (viewable over on Tumblr) and Kmomof4 for giving me a reason to dust off the love for supernatural stories I had long since repressed.

“Boss, we have a body over here.”

That was how Emma knew it was over. _Body_. A single word, nearly lost between the static of her piece of shit walkie.

She stopped dead where she stood, ankle deep in snow, her breath still ragged from cresting that last hill. Her hand hesitated by the walkie clipped to her belt.

_Body._

It was such a clean word. Emotionless. Sexless. Nameless. A good filler word for when the word you’re looking for is too horrifying to communicate via radio.

Something leaden was building up inside Emma’s throat, threatening to escape. She screwed her eyes tight shut, and concentrated on her breathing. She tried to remember what the counselor had said. Breathing in for four seconds. Holding for seven. Breathing out for eight. Or was it seven? _Shit._ She couldn’t remember.

Her radio crackled again, dragging her back out into the cold. Back to reality.

“You read me, Emma? Over.”

She opened her eyes again, squinting against the glare of that pale winter sun as it peeked through the trees. In the fall these woods were like something out of a fairytale, the foliage turning beautiful rich reds and yellows. It had the out of state tourists out in droves, clogging up the roads and campgrounds, practically tripping over themselves to capture the perfect snapshot.

These woods didn’t so much resemble those idyllic Instagram posts anymore. Those famous leaves were long gone now, decayed and buried under half a foot of snow, and now the trees that had held them stood bare and still. Not so much as a whisper of wind through the branches, or a bird call to startle the silence. No, this wasn’t a place fit for a fairytale. Not anymore.

 _Body_ meant Emma was too late.

 

* * *

 

When Emma had first been contemplating a career in law enforcement, they’d touted the generous benefits, the camaraderie, and the opportunities for advancement. Small-town policing, they said, had the best of both worlds. All of the job satisfaction, but none of the crushing quotas and internal politics that beleaguered big city police forces.

And maybe there was some truth to that. Storybrooke, Maine was best known these days for lobster fishing and its quaint Main Street, lined with antique stores. It wasn’t exactly a hive of scum and villainy. Most people didn’t even remember to lock their doors. Or at least, they hadn’t.

Not until Kathryn.

Five days ago, Kathryn Nolan had left the house she shared with her husband, David, climbed into her Volvo and headed east on Walnut Lane. She had an appointment with a new client at her law practice at 3pm, but she never showed. Likewise, she never made her evening yoga class at the rec center. The next morning, her husband David called in at the Sheriff’s Station to report her missing.

By his own admission, there had been some turbulence on the home front. An extra-marital affair. Not hers. Separation was simply a matter of _when_ , not _if_. So when she hadn’t returned home, he’d dismissed his initial concerns, and assumed she was staying with friends. Maybe with her sister down in Portland, to give them both some breathing space.

That is, until he noticed her toothbrush still by the sink. Her phone still plugged into the charger by the night stand. Her suitcase still packed away in the closet, under a pile of sweaters. If she’d left town, she’d done it in a hell of a hurry.

The cellphone was the most concerning omission. Like most plugged in, twenty first century women, Kathryn had come to consider her iPhone almost as an extension of herself, and a glance at her social media accounts supported this assertion. She was a prolific Instagrammer, a champion of the gym selfie with an appreciation for a good hashtag. That she would leave her phone behind for an extended period of time seemed wildly out of character.

Even so, Emma had her hopes set on a simple explanation. A second cellphone her husband didn’t know about. An impromptu drive down the coast to cool off from the latest fight, interrupted by some bad weather. Maybe some car trouble. An unplanned night in a motel somewhere off the interstate. Due to return at any time.

Her hopes had been dashed two days ago, when a particularly intrepid hiker discovered a grey Volvo abandoned up on one of the trailheads by the reservoir.

 

* * *

 

The riverbank was steep as it curved down to the freezing water, and Emma’s boots slid across the ground cover slippery with freshly trampled snow.

An arm reached out to slow her descent, and she slid to a halt, her hands still grasping onto the sleeve of Graham’s jacket for dear life.

He was solid under her hands, a steadying presence. But that was Graham all over, really. Her Deputy was one of the good ones.

“Thanks,” she said with an awkward cough, stepping back to compose herself. It didn’t take long to forget her embarrassment. Not when she looked past him and saw the body lying on the riverbank.

She felt Graham’s attention wander deliberately  towards the trees, giving her a minute to come to grips with what she was seeing and get it together.

All in all, it was not a picture Emma ever wanted to remember, though she knew she would.

It’s amazing how many backflips the human mind will do in order to turn whatever it is seeing into something palatable. _It’s not real_ , her brain whispered. _It’s just special effects_ , it reasoned. _Movie magic._

And maybe she could’ve let herself believe that, if it weren’t for the snarl of blonde hair lapping against the rocks, the same shade as her own.

Her stomach roiled, and she clenched her fists to her sides until the initial nausea passed. No one would’ve blamed her. By the looks of things, the body had been in the water for a couple of days already.

Swallowing back the bile, Emma took a precarious step closer to the body lying prone on the sandbank. “You found her like this?” Emma called over her shoulder, scanning what mottled flesh she could see for any immediately obvious wounds.

“Ruby found her first,” Graham admitted, sidling up next to her. “That nose of hers.”

Ruby Lucas was the department’s newest recruit. Young, enthusiastic, and with a genetic predisposition towards lycanthropy, she made for a hell of a tracker. It made sense she’d be the one to sniff her out.

It also explained why Emma could hear someone retching into a nearby clump of bushes, contaminating her crime scene with the contents of their stomach.

Emma might’ve thought someone who dined out on live game every full moon would have a stronger stomach, but what did she know?

This wasn’t Emma’s first dead body. That privilege belonged to another girl, in another town. But you never forget your first.

“She was half in the water when we found her,” Graham continued. “Had to drag her out to stop the current taking her. Haven’t touched her otherwise. I know we’re supposed to check vitals, but under the circumstances…”

Under the circumstances, Emma understood. Dead was dead, there was no mistaking it. She knelt down by the body all the same, pulling a pair of latex gloves from her pocket.

“You’re sure it’s her?” Emma asked, sliding the gloves on with a little less finesse than she would’ve liked.

“Don’t know many other missing blonde women in designer threads, do you?”

She didn’t. But there was only one way to be sure.

“On the count of three, we’re going to roll her over, okay?”

Graham looked dubious. “Should we be moving her?”

Somehow Emma got the impression he was more concerned with having to touch the body again than with proper forensic protocol.

Emma shrugged, having already weighed her options. The nights had been cold lately, but the river hadn’t frozen over yet, the current too strong. There was no telling how far upstream she’d gone into the water, but this hadn’t been the place. This was just where she happened to wash up. Between her time in the river, and Ruby and Graham’s hauling her out of the water, Emma doubted there’d be much trace evidence left anyway.

She thought of the fifty or so townspeople they still had trawling the woods in freezing conditions, all out looking for Kathryn Nolan.

“I need to make sure it’s her before I call off the search,” she reasoned. And then a little softer, “Are you okay to do this?”

Graham’s answering smile was tight, but he didn’t respond one way or another, just crouched down next to her, and waited on Emma’s signal.

_Alright then._

“One,” Emma began, taking a deep breath. On “Two” they moved, Graham’s hands coming up to cup the shoulder, and Emma’s to grasp her arm. The body was still clad in a thin sweater, stuck fast to the skin, but it was hard to say what color the fabric had been originally, under the layers of black river mud.

“Three.”

They both heaved, the dead weight lifting, and then finally succumbing to gravity, flipping her onto her back.

Both of them were on their feet in seconds, backing away in a hurry.

“Did they…?” Graham began, his words halting as his hand came up to cover his mouth, like he might throw up.

Emma thought she might join him in that.

“Looks like it.”

It was Kathryn Nolan. Of that, Emma was certain. She’d get David Nolan to do a formal identification in time, but she was sure. Even with the bloating and the discoloration, the face was still one she recognized from polite run ins at the grocery store, or waiting in line for the treadmill at the gym.

Kathryn was still clothed, for the most part. One foot was bare, the other still booted. Jeans still intact, though she couldn’t tell if the tears at the knees were recent or part of the design. Her sweater had become twisted and heavy with mud, but it was only where it had been ripped open at the chest that she was truly exposed.

At first glance she’d mistaken it for mud. River debris. Staining through her shirt and clinging fast to her skin. But it wasn’t, and it only took Emma’s brain half a second to catch up with what her eyes were seeing.

It was a wound. An angry gash, deep inside Kathryn’s chest. Right where her heart should’ve been.

Emma turned her attention back to her partner, who stood hunched over, his hands on his knees, a fresh line of sweat bursting from his forehead in spite of the cold.

“You want to sit?” Emma asked gently, reaching out for one of his hands to lead him away. But he snatched his arm back, shaking his head.

“I just need…” he paused, as if he wasn’t even sure what it was he needed. “Someone has to call off the search,” he said finally, having found a suitable excuse.

“Sure.” She tried to keep her tone steady, no judgement. “The radio in the cruiser works best.”

His relief was palpable, her words a lifeline he grasped with both hands.

He took a few steps back up the bank, and then paused, turning around with visible effort.

“You think a person could’ve done that?” he asked, gesturing back to the figure on the bank.

“A person, as opposed to what?” Emma asked, confused.

“A leech?” he suggested. “Or a rogue were?”

Emma almost winced at the slur, but she recovered herself. This wasn’t the time to reiterate workplace sensitivity training.

“The full moon was two weeks ago,” Emma pointed out, putting the kibosh on his werewolf theory. Everybody knew they couldn’t turn during the month. And as for the leech suggestion…

“I don’t know. Doesn’t really seem like a vampire’s style, does it?”

They’d handled a vampire attack together once before. A young woman nearly drained to death by her suitor, a baby vampire who still hadn’t learned the depths of his appetites, until he’d been confronted with more temptation than he could handle.

Older vampires knew better. They were careful, and they were controlled. But the young ones were, by and large, impulsive. A slave to their bloodlust. Frenzied.

Not a good fit for what happened to Kathryn.

Graham shrugged, still looking morbidly unhappy.

“All I know is, a person didn’t do that. A monster did.”


	2. Chapter 2

Some people found it hard to think of eating in the middle of a murder investigation. Maybe it was the gore. Maybe it was the growing list of actionable items. Maybe it was the image of the grieving husband running on a loop in their head, falling to his knees on his own front porch before they'd even finished saying the words:  _"I'm sorry."_

Whatever their reasons, Emma wasn't one of them.

And it wasn't that the case wasn't getting to her. It was getting to her just fine. Emma defied anyone to make that particular house call, and come out of the experience clean. Even with Graham at her back, offering her his silent support, breaking the news to David Nolan had left its scars on all of them.

And yet, even as she replayed the scene over and over in her mind, she could no longer ignore the constant rumbling of her stomach, as it threatened to start eating itself. The granola bar she'd grabbed on her way out the door this morning hadn't really done the trick.

So when a call from Granny came in, she practically leapt on it.

There were exactly two places in town that served food until late. One was the Rabbit Hole, a sticky, neon-lit basement bar just off Main Street, which mainly catered to daytime drunks and Storybrooke's dwindling singles scene. The other was Granny's.

Conversation came to a sudden and suspicious halt as Emma swept inside the diner, a cold wind at her back. Nothing like an appearance from Johnny Law to really put a dampener on your Saturday night gossip plans.

No need to guess what the rumor mill was churning out tonight. There wouldn't be a press conference until the morning, but word had gotten around. She recognized a few faces from the search party. They'd all heard the same thing over the radio that she had.

_Body._

One of their own. Mutilated. Murdered. Dumped in the wilderness.

Brushing the snowflakes from her hair and unbuttoning her parka, Emma met their gazes head on. And as if they'd rehearsed it, the gawking faces all turned as one back to their companions, the eerie silence at last punctuated by urgent whispering.

All but one gawking face, that is. Its owner held court from his usual seat by the counter, all the better to pontificate from on high. His mouth was still contorted in an arc of frozen rage, Emma's surprise appearance having cut him off mid-sentence, rousing the rabble.

There was always one.

He recovered quickly, shaking away the deer-in-headlights expression long enough to let his hands curl into fists by his sides.

_Here we go._

His approach was slower than she expected, his boots beating against the the linoleum in short, angry strides. He wanted maximum exposure, Emma realized, when he came for his pound of flesh.

"Hey, Leroy," she said, cutting him off at the pass, her tone deceptively sweet. "Nice work out there with the search party today. I heard your group covered a lot of rough terrain."

The compliment threw him, as she knew it would, but only for a second. A mind like Leroy Bergmann's wasn't accustomed to changing gears at short notice. And it didn't. "Don't you  _'Nice work out there'_  me, sister!" he raged, an accusatory finger jabbing at Emma's chest. "We've got someone out there carving out people's hearts! And I wanna know what you're gonna do about it!"

So much for keeping that little detail quiet.

Judging by the shocked hush that permeated the room, there wasn't a man, woman or child in the place who hadn't heard him. It would be all over town in a matter of minutes, if it wasn't already. Picturing herself punching Leroy in his fat mouth, Emma settled instead for pinching the bridge of her nose in despair.

The number of eyes on her had trebled, and she felt the weight of every stare. Of every vote she'd be losing in the next election.

She cleared her throat, but it wasn't her own shaky words that came out.

"And just what the hell do you think you're doing?" came the voice, shrill and indignant. Emma could only stare in wonder as the aged proprietress came from out of nowhere to batter Leroy with her dishtowel. "Don't you think the Sheriff has enough to worry about without people like you stirring everyone into a frenzy?"

It was none other than the venerable Granny Lucas herself, saving Emma's ass. Again.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," Granny continued, focusing her attention now on the diners at large. "How do you expect the woman to do her job properly, with you all baying for blood like a bunch of medieval peasants?"

Momentarily chastened, Leroy opened his mouth to retort, and found himself at the receiving end of another deadly flick of her dishtowel.

"No, I think we've all heard enough from you, Leroy. I think it's about time you took that apple pie to go, don't you?"

The staring match was legendary, but even a stubborn ass like Leroy was no match for Granny. By the end he was blinking back tears, stopping only to fix Emma with a withering look as he beat a path for the front door, his slice of apple pie forgotten.

"I swear that man grows more obnoxious every time he comes in," Granny confided in a whisper, once Leroy's retreating figure had disappeared down the front steps, into the street.

"Could be," Emma shrugged, surprised to find a burble of conversation returning to the room, like nothing had ever happened.. "So, you rang?"

"Corner booth," Granny said, her voice still low. "It's been three hours. He refuses to leave."

"And you couldn't make him?" Granny might've been pushing seventy, but if the Leroy incident had proved anything, it was that most fully grown men still cowered under the weight of her glare. And if that didn't do the trick, the crossbow she kept under the counter usually did.

Not that Emma knew anything about that, officially.

"Please, Emma?"

Like she could refuse, with Granny looking at her like that, all frail and grandmotherly. The fraud.

"I'll do you up a grilled cheese?"

"Fine," Emma huffed, cracking her knuckles in front of her. "I'll work my Sheriff magic. Guy in the corner, you said?"

Granny only nodded grimly, before disappearing back behind the counter.

* * *

The man in the corner booth was a looker, that was for sure. Loiterer or not, Emma could appreciate the sight of a dark haired stranger who knew how to fill out a leather jacket.

It was only when she felt those piercing blue eyes on hers that she picked him for who he really was. What he really was. Dangerous. A preternatural predator that made the Leroy's of this world seem like fluffy bunnies by comparison.

_Not a man at all. Not anymore._

Before she could talk herself out of it, she swung into the booth opposite him, her hands folded on the table in front of her. "So, Granny tells me you're refusing to leave."

"Can you blame me, lass?" he asked, one eyebrow raising with definite mischief. "And here I thought this would be the dullest stop on my itinerary.  _Hearts carved out of chests,_  you say?" He looked almost delighted with the prospect. And when a vampire was delighted, they always seemed to get that feral, hungry look about them.

Deeply furious at his flippancy, she kicked him under the table. Not enough to injure him, as if she could. Just a little jolt, to wipe that glazed expression off his face. "If you think that kind of attitude will play with me, after the day I've had, you're even worse at your job than I thought, Jones."

That surprised him. And she had to admit, she kind of liked that feeling.

" _Ah_ , so you've heard of me?" He didn't do bashful well, eyes ablaze with interest at this development.

She shrugged, letting her gaze wander down to take in the rest of his ensemble. "Your predecessor gave me a heads up, before she 'retired'. And I gotta say, you are exactly as described."

"And how is that, I wonder? Handsome, I gather?" he asked eagerly, sitting up a little straighter in his seat. "Some might say striking."

And modest, too.

"I believe her exacts words were:  _'A preening idiot with guyliner and a chronic inability to button his shirts up past his navel.'_ " She gave him a pointed look. "Sure seems like she has you pegged."

Of all the things Emma expected him to do, bursting into laughter was not one of them. She almost swore she saw bloody tears collect in the corners of his eyes as he fought to control his mirth.

A vampire with a sense of humor. The world really was full of infinite possibilities.

Eventually his expression sobered back into something approaching nearly business-like, and he cleared his throat meaningfully. "We seem to have started off on the wrong foot somehow, so how about a proper introduction?" He proffered a hand. "Killian Jones, Sheriff of Area 7, at your service."

Emma scoffed. "Yeah, I'm not calling you that. See, around here? Sheriffs are elected. They aren't randomly appointed by a cabal of mysterious vampire bureaucrats."

Mysterious vampire bureaucrats who were little better than gangsters, really, with their complex system of tribute and tithes, and old world punishments. Not to mention zero government oversight.

Killian's eyes narrowed, his hand still outstretched. Waiting.

"Fine," she breathed at last, reaching out to take his hand. "Sheriff Emma Swan. Storybrooke's Finest."

His grip was strong, but not crushing. She almost expected him to abuse that preternatural strength of his, after the way she'd dismissed his title. But c'mon! She'd campaigned hard for her badge. Three months of garden parties, stump speeches and hobnobbing with the Chamber of Commerce. And even after all that, she still had people questioning her abilities at every turn. So if this Killian Jones wanted her to respect his authority, he was going to have to bring something to the table beyond those baby blues.

"You're a tough lass, aren't you?" He sounded almost admiring, as they withdrew their hands back to their respective sides of the table.

"You caught me on a bad day," Emma huffed, the whiff of french fries from a nearby table invading her nostrils, and causing her stomach to churn unhappily. "And Granny said you've been sitting here for the better part of three hours, and haven't ordered anything. Are you trying to earn yourself a stake to the heart?"

A twitch of a smile. "So much for small town hospitality. You seem awfully eager to get rid of me, Ms Swan."

" _Sheriff_  Swan," Emma corrected. "And I am. It's Saturday night and you're taking up Granny's best table. At best, you're being a dick. At worst, you're looking to cause trouble."

"Perhaps I was just trying to get your attention?"

He was  _definitely_  trying to get her attention. If all he'd wanted was a booth of his very own for a few hours, all he had to do was turn those baby blues on Granny and Suggest as much, in that freaky vampire whammy way they had.

Sure, Suggestion was not considered good manners in polite society, but in Emma's experience, that didn't count for much.

"I have a cellphone," Emma replied, deadpan.

"You didn't answer my summons, the day I was appointed. Perhaps I was concerned?"

Oh yeah, his  _"summons"_. Emma remembered that. Hand delivered and printed on the kind of card stock usually reserved for weddings and christenings. God, vampires were such snobs.

Hers was probably still screwed up in a ball at the bottom of the wastepaper basket in her office, where she'd left it. "Yeah, well, I don't remember anyone at my swearing in ceremony telling me I had to answer to vampire bureaucrats."

"Of course, you are not obliged to liase with us," Killian agreed diplomatically. "But it is a courtesy. Studies have shown that in areas where vampire authorities enjoy cordial relations with human law enforcement, human on vampire crime is significantly reduced."

"And vice versa," Emma couldn't help adding.

"Indeed," he agreed, another hint of amusement. "And yet you ignored my invitation?"

Sure, make Emma the bad guy.

"Well, we've been kind of busy. You remember? The whole  _'dead woman with her heart carved out'_  thing?"

"Ah yes. Of course." The glazed look was back.  _Fucking vampires._

"You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

_That_  earned her a sharp look. "That's a very loaded question, Sheriff. And I would hope you wouldn't be foolish enough to let your judgement be clouded by prejudice so early in your investigation."

A true politician's answer. And only one week into the job. He was a natural.

"That's not what I meant," Emma corrected herself. "I only meant, it's weird. For Storybrooke. Carving out someone's heart?" She shuddered. "I wondered if you'd ever seen anything like that?"

"Hearts removed?" He seemed to give that some thought. "Entrails, aye. Eyes, certainly. Genitalia, most definitely. Hearts, though? That's something I haven't seen all that often."

It was a little disturbing how cool he could be on that subject.

"...Right. Well, thanks anyway," Emma said, rising to her feet.

"Is our meeting over?" he asked, surprised to see her already working at the buttons of her parka.

"Is that what this is?"

"Of a sort," he admitted.

"Well, Granny has a grilled cheese with my name on it. Then after that I thought I might solve a murder. Besides, I don't want to keep you from your secret vampire machinations."

He was definitely amused now. "Of course. The secret vampire machinations."

And because he'd been such a good sport about the whole thing, she threw him a bone. "I'll call your secretary back. Make an appointment for us to go over the human/vampire strategy. When things are a little less… hectic."

"You think Tink is my secretary?" he asked, with a wry chuckle. "She's my second."

"Because that's a totally normal thing that people need in this day and age," Emma responded dryly. "Well, anyway, Tink was it? You can tell her from me that her phone manner needs work."

He grinned, and Emma swore she saw a flash of fang. "It would be my pleasure. I've only been telling her that since 1904."

Nineteen Oh …  _Fuck._  Sometimes Emma forgot what immortality really looked like up close. Right up until she remembered she was talking to a centenarian.  _At least._

Fortunately, before she could do something stupid, like ask how old he actually was, Emma's stomach made a loud protest, diverting her attention.

"I'll leave you to your grilled cheese," Killian nodded in her direction, getting to his own feet.

"Thanks."

Emma made to shuffle sideways out of her booth, when a smooth hand on her arm stopped her progress. She looked up, surprised to find his eyes staring right back. Almost Suggestive, if she had any frame of reference.

"You will keep me apprised of any developments in this murder case of yours, won't you, Sheriff?" he asked.  _Implored_. "As a courtesy?"

The bastard was trying to vampire whammy her! And after she was just starting to like the guy.

Shaking him loose, she neatly sidestepped her way out of the booth, and out of his sphere of influence. He looked confused. Troubled. As well he might. And if Emma was in a more self-preserving state of mind, maybe she would've worried about that. Instead she just took a twenty out of her jeans pocket, and slammed it down on the table.

"If you were trying to butter me up, Jones," she called, as her parting shot, "maybe you shouldn't've pissed off Granny."


	3. Chapter 3

On the whole, Emma tried to avoid spending too much time in morgues. **  
**

It wasn’t just the cloying smell of formaldehyde, which clung to her clothes for the rest of the day. Or the thermostat set at a chilly 40 degrees. It wasn’t even the idea of being trapped in a windowless basement with a whole bunch of dead people. Though,  _gross._

For your garden variety deaths, your heart attacks and car accidents, the body was usually farmed out to the funeral parlor the next town over, who would handle everything. For the more interesting cases though, the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner would get involved, transferring the body down South for an autopsy.

Kathryn Nolan’s was an interesting case.

Which meant if Emma didn’t want to wait a month for the official autopsy report, she would have to get in good with the Medical Examiner. The Medical Examiner who was currently dodging her calls.

“I’ll flip you for it?” she pleaded, as Graham rummaged in the break room cabinet in search of more coffee filters.

“You already owe me for the press conference,” he pointed out, emerging from the cabinet empty handed and scowling. “Do we still have that paper towel in the storage closet?”

“They have a Dunks in Augusta…” Emma cajoled.

She sensed a flicker of interest from him, but only a flicker. In the end, his principles won out, and he shook his head defiantly. “I’ve been pulling doubles for you all week. I’m not driving to Augusta and back just because you want to avoid seeing one of your old hook ups.”

She really needed to stop telling him things.

She held his gaze for a long moment, but his resolve didn’t break.  _Son of a bitch._

“Fine!” Emma relented, reaching over to grab the keys for the patrol car off their hook. “I’ll go. But don’t think I’m bringing you back any Boston Kremes. You’ve shown where your loyalties really lie.”

Graham seemed to realize his grave error then, face contorting in pain at the very mention of his favorite treat.

“Nuh, uh,” Emma warned, waggling a finger in front of his face. “You had your chance. I hope you like jelly, you traitor.”

 

* * *

 

To call Dr Victor Whale an old hook up was pushing it. It was a one time thing, ages ago. A darkened bar, two counties from home. He was just a charming smile after a long line of shots. It wasn’t her fault he worked at the State Police Crime Lab. It wasn’t like he’d volunteered that information at the time. There hadn’t been a whole lot of talking, from what she remembered. Though if she was being honest, that wasn’t a lot.

He must’ve remembered at least a little, though, because a definite look of panic crossed his face when he saw her standing by the door to the laboratory, file in hand.

“Relax, Doctor,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “I’m not here for a paternity suit.”

He chuckled, but the way his shoulders relaxed underneath his lab coat convinced Emma she’d been right on the money with that one.

“Emma Swan,” she said, reaching over to shake his hand, saving him the trouble of having to remember her name. “I’m actually here about a dead woman.”

“No shortage of those here,” Whale said, breaking contact to stretch his arms wide. “We’ve got every make and model. Cheerleaders. Housewives. Grandmas. Society queens. Or if you’re looking for something a touch more exotic, our night time receptionist is of the walking, talking, bloodsucking variety. So, what can I do you for, Sheriff?”

He’d clocked her badge at her hip, then. Always a good sign to have a medical examiner who noticed the little details.

“You’ll remember mine. Kathryn Nolan? She had her heart missing. I heard you were the one who did the autopsy?”

It was almost comical, how fast his devil-may-care grin slid into a grimace.

“Kathryn,” he nodded solemnly. “Of course.”

“Great. Feel like answering some of my questions?”

He hesitated, running a hand through his short platinum hair. “I feel like I should warn you my full report won’t be ready for a couple weeks. The labs are still backed up from Christmas, and…”

“And I’ve got someone in my town who likes to carve out women's hearts,” Emma interrupted. “I’ll take your work-in-progress.”

He blinked. Just once.

“Alright then. She’s down in the freezer. Follow me.”

 

* * *

 

The building was labyrinthine, and Emma quickly lost her bearings amidst the institutional grey speckled walls, and rows of identical white doors. But as they descended the stairs down into the sub-basement, she came to understand why they called it “the freezer.” She hugged her arms more tightly around herself as the good doctor led her into a pristine white examination room that had never known the joys of central heating.

Probably for the best, all things considered.

“Kathryn Nolan,” Whale repeated to himself, picking up a clipboard and running his finger down the page. “Seems to be behind door number 3. You want a look at her?”

In Emma’s mind,  _want_  didn’t really come into it. Fighting her better instincts, she nodded, then stood back as Whale tucked the clipboard under his arm and pulled open the nearest cold storage locker. With a small grunt of effort he slid the steel drawer free until the figure under the white sheet lay between them.

Dragging her eyes from the shape beneath the sheet, Emma looked up to see Whale watching her. Waiting for some sign of distress, maybe. She figured this was probably the juncture where most people would start with the hyperventilating and the vomiting. Fortunately, Emma was not most people. This wasn’t her first rodeo. And even it is had been, she would never give him the satisfaction.

She held his gaze firmly as he pulled back the sheet.

“This your girl?”

Kathryn looked better than the last time Emma had seen her. Not that that was all that hard. But someone had definitely cleaned her up, removed all the river debris and brushed her hair out.   

“I’m guessing you’ve established cause of death, Doctor?”

His grin was wry. “Well, I might’ve gone to a State School, but even I couldn’t miss the gaping hole in her chest where her heart used to be.”

Emma blanched. “They took out the heart while she was still alive?”

“That’s my working theory. Massive chest trauma. She was definitely dead before she hit the water, anyway. The condition she arrived in made it a little hard to determine whether her other injuries were sustained before or after her swim in the river, but I didn’t spot anything else that looked particularly lethal.”

Seeing the look on Emma’s face, Whale hurriedly continued.

“Of course, there’s every chance she wasn’t conscious at the time. We’re still waiting on the toxicology to come back, but she might’ve been drugged. There weren’t any ligature marks on her wrists or ankles, and that’s rather telling. I doubt your girl would’ve just kept still while someone hacked into her.”

Emma remembered the woman who outpaced her on the treadmill, week after week. No, that didn’t seem like Kathryn’s MO.

“So they used a knife? Like a hunting knife?”

“That’s probably a good bet. I’ve taken some moulds of the grooves left in the ribs. I might be able to narrow that down for you. But my best guess at the moment is you’re looking at a substantial blade. 10 inches maybe. They weren’t fucking around.”

Emma wondered if that was the medically appropriate term.

“Good news is,” Whale pointed out, “whoever your killer is, they probably aren’t too smart, and they’re definitely not medically trained. I did some reading about this. It isn’t easy to rip out a human heart directly from the chest. There’s the sternum and the ribs to contend with. It takes a lot of strength to cut or break through them, and a lot of  time. It’s messy. The victim doesn’t die right away. Compare that with, say, the Aztecs, who practised heart-extraction as part of some rituals. They’d slice below the ribs with a sharp rock, and rip the heart out from below. It’s fast, efficient, and relatively easy to accomplish with little more than a scalpel and your hand.”

He indicated the angry wound marring Kathryn’s chest. “That’s not the route your killer chose to take. Ergo, not too bright.”

Or maybe they just appreciated the spectacle of it.

“You get anything I could use to find this guy?”

Whale shrugged, lifting the sheet back over Kathryn’s face. “After a couple of days in that river, you’d be lucky to find any useful trace evidence. We sent everything we had off for analysis, but I don’t like your odds. ”

Emma frowned. “You think she was in the water the whole time, then? She was killed the day she disappeared?”

“That’s my opinion. It’s hard to say for sure. The decaying process is delayed when the body is submerged in water, especially when it’s this cold. But the body was already showing signs of putrefaction, so she’d probably been out there the full five days. That's not forgetting the lack of ligature marks, which suggest she wasn’t held for any length of time. If you’re thinking this was a kidnapping, then I’d say they used some kind of drug to incapacitate her, in the short term. Unfortunately, the condition of the body makes it hard to determine how it might’ve entered her system. You’d have to wait for the tox screen to know what you’re dealing with.”

“So you’re saying it could be anyone?” Emma sighed, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand.

“Well,” Whale considered. “Anyone with a hunting knife and a certain amount of patience. They didn’t do this by accident. They  _meant_  to rip her heart out. If you consider how much strength it would take to saw through the sternum, you’re probably looking at a male, or especially strong woman. Hard to gauge height by the angle of grooves in the ribs, because she was probably on her back at the time, but the marks definitely skew left. So he was probably right-handed.”

“So he’s strong, right-handed man, then?” Emma summed up.

It didn’t really narrow down the field much, and the apologetic look Whale shot her way said he knew it.

“And he probably knew her,” Whale added. “Or surprised her. I didn’t spot a lot of obvious defensive wounds. So whoever they are, they must’ve gotten pretty close before they incapacitated her.”

A strong, right-handed man, who was familiar to her, then.

As if that didn’t describe nearly the entire male population of Storybrooke to a T.

Swallowing back her disappointment, Emma extended her hand again. “Thanks for your time, Doc. I look forward to your full report.”

He looked at her hand, but he didn’t accept it. Instead he let his lips curve into what could only be described a salacious grin. “I get off in an hour. I don’t suppose you-”

“I think that would be a spectacularly bad idea,” Emma said firmly, snatching her hand back and cutting him off before he could dig himself any further. And then, because she couldn’t help herself, “Do you normally try to seduce the police officers investigating the deaths of your patients?”

“Only the hot ones,” he replied, maybe a little too honestly. “And I seem to remember we had fun together.”

Emma doubted he remembered that much. She certainly didn’t.

“Yeah, I’m not really interested in jeopardizing my murder investigation with a repeat performance.”

Whale held a finger to his lips, letting loose what she was sure someone had once told him was a panty dropping smile. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

The next time Emma got it into her head to take a man to bed, she was going to make sure she was across state lines first. Hell, maybe even across the border. Anything to ensure she never, ever found herself in this situation again.

“As tempting as that sounds,” she said, with forced sincerity, “I think I’m gonna pass. No,” she said, holding up a hand as he moved closer. “It’s okay. I can see myself out.”

 

* * *

 

Twenty minutes and a few wrong turns later, Emma was back in the patrol car again, heater blasting, scrolling through her contacts with numb fingers.

“Graham, hey. Bad time?”

“Is there any other time?” he drawled.

Emma stifled her eye roll. “You’re funny, you know that? I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

“That and my charming personality,” he pointed out.

“Of course,” she agreed. “Can’t forget that. Any chance you put those charms to work and got Michael Tillman to open the garage for you?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know what I’m looking for. Didn’t we already dust and bag everything in Kathryn’s car?”

“We thought so, but back then this was just a disappearance. Now it’s a murder. Check again. Especially the backseat.”

“The backseat?” Graham repeated.

“Kathryn was driving from home to the office when she disappeared. It’s a straight line, and she had no reason to deviate. So either she stopped for someone, or they were already in the car when she got in. Check the backseat.”

“If I find anything, do I earn myself a Boston Kreme?” he asked hopefully.

“You find anything, I’ll buy you a whole box.”


End file.
